


stitching up the loose threads of my soul

by Ecphasis



Category: WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, could be seen as platonic or romantic, mentions of Seth Rollins, post betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecphasis/pseuds/Ecphasis
Summary: kink meme fill! following seth’s betrayal, dean attempts to patch roman up. lots of introspection and hurt/comfort.
Relationships: Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Roman Reigns
Kudos: 36





	stitching up the loose threads of my soul

**Author's Note:**

> fill for this prompt: https://wrestlingkink2.dreamwidth.org/423.html?thread=41895#cmt41895. just recently rewatched the “destruction of the shield” documentary and have been talking a lot of ambreigns with my friend, so seeing this prompt (even though it’s literally years old) sparked a fire in me. not beta read, or proofread at all for that matter. we die like men. title is from “young blood” by noah kahan. feel free to offer any feedback you have!

Roman still couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened. Maybe it was because he was the first one who was hit — he didn’t have a chance to see it coming. But judging by the state that Dean was in, it didn’t seem like seeing it coming would have helped any. He didn’t remember the trip from the arena to their hotel room, just knew that, one minute, he was laid out in the middle of the ring with his brother — with Seth standing over him, standing /with/ the Authority, and the next he was being ushered into their hotel room by Dean. He had vague memories of familiar hands gripping him too-tight, a graveled voice barking harsh warnings at anyone who came too close, whether it be a fellow competitor trying to get a closer look at the carnage Seth had wrought or the medical team trying to do their jobs, but it blurred together, was tinted red. 

It was hard for Roman to control his anger. He’d always struggled with it, struggled with centering himself when that wave of rage flooded his very /core/, but tonight it felt almost — fleeting. Like he couldn’t keep a grip on it no matter how tightly he grasped at it. That voice inside him that /roared/ was being drowned out by question after question, rolling around in his brain, looping and repeating like the answer would reveal itself if it was just asked enough. Why had Seth betrayed them? What had Hunter offered? Why hadn’t they, why hadn’t Dean and Roman been enough?

The Shield was about fighting injustice, and tonight — tonight, justice had died. Had keeled over on the side of the road and fallen into a ditch, lost in the muck and grime. No, that sounded as if this was out of their control, made it seem as if no one had played a role in it, that it had just occurred /naturally/. Seth, Seth was the one who had done this. Seth had driven that knife into justice’s chest again and again and again, splattered himself with blood and then licked the knife clean with a smirk too cold and cruel to belong to Roman’s brother — to the Seth that Roman knew. 

There he was, getting lost in his thoughts again, drifting into a daze that numbed him enough to look this travesty in the eye. That image of Seth standing over them, of looking to see Dean on the canvas writhing in pain that went deeper than even the blows from the steel chair could have reached, was burned into the back of Roman’s eyelids, was all he saw every time he blinked, lingered even when his eyes were open and seeing nothing. 

“Where is the goddamn first aid —“ That voice. Roman knew that voice. Coming to suddenly, jarringly, blinking away the sound of the crowd ringing in his ears. Dean was turning over bags, dumping the contents and tossing things aside haphazardly in his search. His shoulders were drawn up, almost touching his ears, usually smooth movements suddenly stiff and mechanical, hissing when he leaned over too far and wincing as he swore loud enough for everyone on the hotel floor to hear. 

Roman watched him for a few moments, his own brain not connecting the dots, not able to convey in spoken word that the first aid kit was in Roman’s bathroom bag (more a duffel bag than a typical bathroom bag, filled with hair products and body wash that Dean liked to steal when his usual three-in-one ran out unexpectedly). But Dean managed to find it on his own, grunting and stomping over to the bed that Roman was perched on the edge of, body tensed and taut as a string waiting to be plucked. 

Dean tossed the kit on the bed, motioned for Roman to take his sweatshirt off (another flicker of a memory, a snapshot of Dean helping him into a sweatshirt, something to cover himself long enough to make it back to the hotel room — and being too dazed to express proper gratitude, despite the fact that Roman was far too self-conscious to feel comfortable being seen by anyone but his brothers without a shirt) and stepping forward to peel it off of him when Roman merely blinked at him. That was when Roman noticed the tremble to Dean’s hands, the flared nostrils and flushed ears, the red eyes that indicated Dean had been unable to stop the tears on the drive to the hotel. Roman lifted his arms to help and wordlessly reached a hand to touch Dean’s cheek, watching his Shield brother tense at first and then gradually relax into the point of contact, pressing into Roman’s palm and closing his eyes, face scrunched up but shoulders lowering fractionally. 

“C’mon, let’s get you patched up,” murmured by Dean, bumping their foreheads a bit too firmly and then pulling away, breaking that point of contact with visible reluctance. As he moved to kneel on the bed behind Roman, his voice raised, once more sharpening to a dangerous knife-edge. “When I get my hands on that fucking /weasel/, I’m going to wring his goddamn /neck/.” Seeing the marks on Roman’s back seemed to ignite that fire in him once more, the volume of his words raising gradually as curses and threats spilled from lips raw and swollen from being gnawed on with teeth dug in too harshly. 

Oddly, hearing Dean ranting and raving, the familiarity that came with colorful curses flowing off of Dean’s tongue in a manner that would have made the most prolific curser blush, was enough to ground Roman in the moment. He couldn’t relax — the Samoan didn’t know the next time he’d be able to loosen the muscles in his body, be able to breathe without it getting caught in his throat as his chest tightened and the grief and hurt threatened to overwhelm him — but he could focus now, even if it was on Dean’s swears and threats of violence. His eyes slipped closed as he felt trembling hands slowly start to dab at the cuts on Roman’s back. 

Dean took his time — not out of choice, but out of necessity, hands shaking to the point he fumbled the gauze, dropped the medical tape more than once, struggling to apply an even pressure that didn’t make Roman hiss in pain. And while he worked, he continued talking, Roman listening to every word. Initially, Roman had hoped Dean would wear himself out; he was clearly running on fumes, but he seemed to be determined to draw this out, seemed to be fueled by the rage and hurt he was feeling. Oh, and how he tried to hide that hurt, tried to layer his fury thick enough to muffle the betrayal that echoed in his words, tried to puff his chest out and yell loud enough to drown the loss that caused his words to catch and a strangled sound to rumble in his chest. 

Finally, Dean was done; he’d given his best effort, clearly inexperienced hands hesitant at moments and too firm at others, and now paused, the “bastard” spat at a man that wasn’t in the room and couldn’t hear followed by an uncomfortable silence. He pressed his forehead to Roman’s shoulder, taking a shuddering breath as still-shaking hands grasped blindly for one of Roman’s. 

Roman turned slowly enough to not spook or startle Dean, well aware that a hurt Dean was a flighty Dean — the dirty blond struggled with emotions at the best of times, and this was clearly not one of those times. This was raw and painful, unexpected and devastating, an earthquake in the midwest that rocked foundations not built to withstand that kind of devastation. But Dean’s foundations were solid, were made to endure; he’d been forced to rebuild time and time again, through betrayals and disappointments, heartbreak and the type of hurt that most people could not begin to comprehend. Seth hadn’t shaken Dean’s house down, he’d talked his way into that well-guarded fortress and earned Dean’s trust, had planted bombs in the basement and smiled in his face as he’d slapped the detonator. This wasn’t a natural disaster, this was an attack, and Roman could see his own anguish reflected in Dean’s eyes as he met that pained gaze, blue eyes searching for something in Roman’s. 

“I’m here,” Roman breathed, softly, gently, throat closing as tears threatened to overtake him, unable to stop the thought that their bed would feel so much emptier tonight. 

Dean shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe Seth would — what piece of /shit/ would —“ He cut himself off when Roman placed a hand on the back of his neck, swallowing down his next words with considerable effort. He was trying to work himself back up, trying to stoke the embers into another roaring fire, because anger was so much easier to deal with than hurt, than loss (and grief felt like a distant shore they’d never glimpse, let alone reach on this night that seemed to stretch on forever). 

Leaning in to press their foreheads together, not breaking eye contact. “I’m not leaving,” Roman promised, voice breaking and tears welling in his eyes. He could see Dean’s own suffering spill down his cheeks in thick wet streaks, ignored the mumbled remark about crying like a bitch because there was nothing wrong with mourning, nothing wrong with expressing the hurt clawing its way into both of their chests and carving a hole shaped like their brother — like Seth. “I’m not leaving you. We’re in this together.” He wasn’t going to tell Dean things would be okay. They wouldn’t. Not yet, maybe not ever. Neither of them knew exactly what had happened tonight or why, but they bore the marks of a betrayal that words could never do justice. Their bodies ached in time with their hearts, both pairs of hands trembled as they grasped at each other and squeezed too-tight. 

“Together,” Dean echoed, a question in his words. Doubt, doubt that didn’t hurt Roman for it being there; the Samoan knew that Dean’s trust in him, unwavering before, had been shaken tonight. Seth had made plenty of promises over the years, all of them broken tonight, and Roman could understand the uncertainty that would leave in its wake. 

Roman took one of Dean’s hands in his own, kissed a temple and knocked their heads together. “Together.”


End file.
